In Miguel Gomes's Arabian Nights trilogy, a loose interpretation of One Thousand and One Nights, stories unfold like dreams. Our narrator, Scheherazade, tells fictionalized stories inspired by facts that occurred in Portugal between August 2013 and July 2014. A period in which, "the country was held hostage to a programme of economic austerity executed by a government apparently devoid of social justice." As in the legend, every night Scheherazade must, instead of sleeping, weave fantastic and endless stories within stories to escape death. However, once her husband grows tired of her, he will have her killed.
On the one hand, a grand celebration of the Portuguese imagination. On the other, a bitter indictment of power. In all, Gomes paints a playful but biting portrait of life under austerity. Scheherazade's stories are playful and crude, and her imagination celebrates art for art's sake. In stories like The Men with Hard-Ons, about the literal impotence of those who have imposed austerity measures, the powerful are humiliated by Scheherazade. Even as they impose strict regulations and limits on Portugal's citizens, they can't squash their dreams. Her storytelling undercuts their power entirely, mythologizing them as idiots rather than leaders of industry.
By the third film, after appearing in the first two films as nothing but a voice, Scheherazade physically appears. At this point, she knows her story is running thin. Trapped inside the fictionalized Baghdad, she spends hours looking out the palace windows, "longing for the untidy world outside." As great as her imagination is, it can't withstand her husband, the King's, demands. No longer a disembodied voice, she's allowed the gift of whims and desires. But, given the conditions of her imprisonment, she doesn't even have power over her dreams. Sleep, perhaps her last refuge, was taken from her.
Writing about Pasolini's version of Arabian Nights, critic Ignatiy Vishnevetsky defined Pasolini as a strategist rather than a stylist. "The haphazard camerawork, directed-from-just-off-camera performances, and mismatched editing" contribute to a spontaneous, life-affirming atmosphere. The chaotic filming style and inexpert actors allow, in their own ways, for moments of transcendence. The film's main story is about a young man Nur-e-Din (Franco Merli), who falls in love with a beautiful slave girl, Zumurrud (Ines Pellegrini).
In one scene, Zumurrud laughs as she seduces her master. Thematically, the scene celebrates the contradictions inherent to the human experience, toying with the power dynamics of sex and love as a means of expounding on the broader intersections of power in society. However, the miraculousness of the scene emerges not in its subtext but the gestures of Merli and Pellegrini. Their playfulness downplays any attempts to intellectualize their meeting. Ultimately, the images that linger are inconsequential to the story; Pellegrini's laugh, Merli's eyes and a flock of doves. Yet, spiritually, their poetry assures Pasolini's major significance as an artist.
Gomes, not unlike Pasolini, adopts a version of this methodology. Throughout his films, he employs non-actors, documentary flourishes, and broader unconventional structures to make room for miracles. In Our Beloved Month of August, the creative process is in the movie itself. The documentary elements of the film's first half—pimba music, couples dancing, motorcycle reunions, older men singing—inform the fictionalized elements of the second half. Gomes, not unlike Pasolini, does little to differentiate between high and low art. While the fictionalized elements incorporate tropes from so-called serious arthouse cinema (patriarchal incest, coming of age sexual experiences and characters reflecting deeply in long shots) and the film's tone varies from silly to obscene, mainly in the behind-the-scenes. In both narrative and form, he highlights how, through art, music and love, his characters yearn to communicate greater meaning about their lives. As they reach for a paradise that might only exist in memories or dreams, they articulate their relationship to themselves and each other through the creative process.
The best instance of this happens as two non-professional actors discuss working on the movie in Our Beloved Month of August. One complains that it is more work than he expected; the other seems willing to quit his job to act full-time. They negotiate power dynamics and celebrate art. The discussion highlights the capacity we all have to create, but only if given the time and space to do it. This push and pull between high art and low, fiction and non-fiction reach a crescendo during the film's climax. The lead actress is crying, and she suddenly breaks into a smile. Is this a break in character? Has she suddenly become self-aware? Is this the only logical conclusion to a film that blurs the lines between life and art?